A Day at the Ballgame

I played hooky from work last Thursday to take in a mid week Major League Baseball game. It’s an escape I've used to unplug myself from the daily grind for about as many summers as I've been in the work force.

When I lived in Spokane I was a fan of the Seattle Mariners. Unfortunately Seattle is a 6 hour drive from there. And 6 hours back. And as much as I liked the Mariners, I didn't like being in a car 12 hours just to go see them. So, in the ten years I lived in the Pacific Northwest I only made the trek the Seattle Kingdome, twice.

However Oakland, and the Oakland Coliseum, is only about a two and a half hour drive from Grass Valley. And since returning to Northern California back in the mid 80’s, many a random afternoon has been spent in the Bay Area contentedly taking in the boys of summer and my boyhood team, the A's

My ticket was in Section 233 of the Coliseum’s plaza reserve section (fancy terminology for second deck, outfield). After batting practice, from high above my perch over the left field warning track (parts I couldn’t even see because of the bad angle) I gazed out on the field of green and munched on lunch the lovely Amy had packed for me. Dipping into a bag of Sun-Chips, I mused on all the changes the 'ol ballpark has gone through since my very first game at the Oakland Coliseum.

It was 1968 and I was 12, both a fair distance in the past (about as far from home plate as my ticket, last Thursday). The A's opponent that evening was the Washington Senators, since 1972 known as the Texas Rangers. 6 foot 6 Frank Howard was in the lineup for the Senators. He was a behemoth of a man who hit a lot of home runs and I was hoping to see him knock one out. But the closest anyone got to a round-tripper was Sal Bando’s towering fly to left that might’ve cleared the fence by an inch if Frank Howard been shorter. Tracking the flight of the ball and standing with his back to the wall, he stuck his glove up and snagged it. He didn’t even have to jump. In the damp Oakland air, nothing hit to the outfield that evening had much carry. It was a game mostly of singles and the A’s lost, 4-1

When my Dad and I settled into our seats that long removed April evening, I remember the Oakland Coliseum being nearly a brand new facility. But these days, the place is definitely showing its age. Ownership has made little effort to spruce up- or even keep up- the drab, decaying ballpark. The only tangible thing A's CEO Lew Wolff has done to the stadium, besides make the A's non-competitive, is tarp off most of the third deck.

Typical of rich guy’s with a seat behind the dugout, Mr. Wolff, as he looked down his nose and insulting much of the fan base, explained it was because nobody wanted to sit up there. The truth is nobody wants to sit on any level because he’s a cheap bastard that won’t put any money into fielding a decent team. Third Deck or front row, the team sucks. Like the ballpark. And the owner.

Until I couldn’t anymore, I often used to sit in the third deck. So did a lot of other fans because it was affordable and offered a great view of the entire field, and picturesque panorama of the East Bay Hills. Honest to God, on a warm sunny day it was beautiful up there and there was absolutely nothing wrong with having a ticket to watch a baseball game from there. But when the freaking football Raiders returned from LA, the Coliseum's best days were forever put behind it.

Alameda County bent over and let Raiders Managing General Partner, Al Davis, have his way with them and the ballpark. Using nothing but public money, more luxury boxes were put in as well as more seats, and the Coliseum was completely reconfigured, which altered the air currents for baseball and turned the place into a cement mixing bowl of ugly, punctuated by the monstrosity, derisively known by baseball fans as "Mt. Davis"; the hideous structure constructed behind the outfield which permanently blocked the view of the surrounding scenery and stripped the Coliseum of any aesthetic appeal as sports venue.

But besides playing in a ballpark that's been ruined by the NFL and outlived its usefulness, other changes to come along since 1968 that have muted the ballpark experience that have nothing to do with the A's or the facility; like the cost to attend. A bleacher ticket in college was two bucks, and three in the third deck. Although those prices went up in the 80's, a bleacher ticket was still only 4 dollars and a seat in the third deck, just six. It stayed that way almost all the way through the 90's. 

On that first visit to the Coliseum, it was my birthday weekend and Dad got pretty good seats, in the lower deck, 19 rows behind the third base dugout. They cost him 9 dollars each. 18 dollars, which sounded like a lot of money just to go to a baseball game. But my single ticket the other day, to sit approximately 400 feet from home plate and eye level with the left field foul pole was also 18 dollars. By itself. 

Because game time (6 pm) for that first A’s game coincided with dinner time, Dad bought me a hot dog and a Coke. Together, this standard ballpark combo set him back two whole dollars. The other day I brought my own food, but purchased a tiny cup of Dr. Pepper that cost twice what a dog and a drink cost in ’68- $4. 50. Had I bought food on Thursday I'd have had to rob a bank somewhere along the way. A Stadium Dog in Oakland goes for 7 dollars. For a hot dog. 

Parking’s ridiculous, too. I don’t know what it was in 1968, but in college I remember it costing 2 dollars to park in the Coliseum parking lot. It went up to 4 dollars in the 80’s, 5 in the 90’s. Last Thursday, I paid 13 dollars for the ‘privilege’ of leaving my little truck at the far end of the Coliseum grounds. I was parked so far away the ballpark looked like a mirage. Nevertheless, it still cost 13 clams to park and hike in. Crazy. Not counting the bridge toll in Benicia, the excursion set me back $45.00. And I’d come alone.  

Besides the accelerated costs, I can think of a few other things that have become a little annoying about a day at the ballgame, too.

I’m growing weary of all the "American Idol" wanna-bees that teams trot out to sing the National Anthem. The song isn’t great to start with. Singing it accapella doesn't help; singing it accapella and poorly is an outright travesty. Helloo- we're not looking at you; we're looking at the flag. So stop preening for Simon Cowell and just sing the damn song. Musical accompaniment would help these rubes stick to the melody, but few team owners want to spend the money for an in-stadium organist anymore. Probably wouldn't make a difference. Being asked to perform the song for nothing but a ticket to the game, but keep time and follow the music as well is probably too much to ask or hope for.

But I also find it odd, before it’s sung, they make an announcement asking those in attendance to rise and "remove your hats". When did they start doing that? As cats instinctively know how to catch mice, I always believed most Americans already knew to rise and remove their hats whenever the colors are presented. Without being told. I’ve seen it since childhood. The flag comes out and everyone stands up, as if on cue.

Not anymore I guess; not when MLB treats the "Star Spangled Banner" as amateur hour. Not when it’s more an afterthought than part of the game experience. That first Coliseum experience with my Dad, the A’s took the field before the Anthem was played, and stood at attention, cap over heart, as the organist played it.  Now the song is done about ten minutes before first pitch. The only people on the field at that time are the ground crew. They might as well just skip it altogether, except the radio and TV broadcasts use that time to run a bunch of pre-game commercials.

Just look around any ballpark and notice all the advertisements. That's big bucks to the teams. Hell, even the name of the Oakland Coliseum has been sold; it’s now the Overstocked Dot Com Coliseum (or the O Dot Co). Barf!  To be fair, I don’t mind seeing billboards on the outfield fences. If it helps the A’s stay in business (though I suspect Lew Wolff’s pocketing most of it) I’m okay with it. It’s kind of a throw-back look to some of the old ballparks of the 50’s and 60’s, back before multi- purpose complexes, like the Coliseum, started being built.

There has to be some limits though. I mean how much is too much? Do we have to play completely by what the advertisers and networks want? Can we maybe get back to the ball park experience being about the freaking game again? I swear that old bastard Bud Selig (MLB Commissioner) would sell the naming rights to Babe Ruth's headstone if there was enough money in it. Barf again.

I miss Roy Steele too. Roy was the Coliseum P.A. announcer and voice of the ballpark from my very first A’s game. Gosh, with pipes so deep they nicknamed him the "voice of God", listening to Roy Steel announce the lineups was like watching Picasso paint. But age and health issues forced him to retire in 2009, and though the new guy is okay, he's no Roy Steele.

So the sound of the place isn't as aesthetically pleasing as it once was either. But here’s another little oddity that makes me scratch my head. Why is the starting time for an afternoon game at 12:35? Why not something a little more novel; like oh, let’s say, 12:30? What's up with all these odd starting times? The A’s play midweek games at 12:35 night games at 7:05, and 1:05 on weekends. Huh? On vacation a couple of years ago, I went to a Mariners game at Safeco Field. First pitch, according to the ticket, was 7:10. And that’s when the game began. Shoot, the Giants start all their weeknight games at 7:15.

It doesn't matter what time they put on the ticket, though, people come in late anyway. Even sitting on an aisle out in the hinterlands, hordes of late arrivals kept filtering in and becoming a nuisance. About half weren’t even in the right section. Of those who were, some were either too wide or too old to move very well. But they weren’t really the problem; nor were the little kids. But the agile adults, weighted down with concessions, stopping to double check their tickets and watch a pitch- or two- spill their food (once, on me), and generally take their sweet ass time getting to where they were going while obstructing the view of those who were on time, already in place and trying to watch the game, they were the problem. 

This went on so long after the game started, I eventually moved over a section, away from the stairs and far from the maddening crowd.  But if a movie starts at 7, aren’t people usually there by 7? Then for a baseball game, if first pitch is 7, or 1:05- or 12 35 for crying out loud- why can't people be in the ballpark by then or soon after? You late-comers are driving me crazy. Come on time, or don't come at all; if you can’t make it on time then at least don’t come to my crummy little corner of the ballpark.

But there's one more thing that's different about the ballpark experience from how it used to be. Dad can't come with me anymore. We went to a lot of games together, mostly Giants and A's, all through childhood and even up till about 15 years ago. He even taught me how to keep score, something I still do today. But age has made it too hard for him to make the trek anymore. The drive, the walking, the steps, the outdoors; it wears him down. So I go alone now, or with Amy, or with friends. And that's okay. Even if the home team sucks, a warm day in the sun watching baseball will always be a good time, no matter who I go with. But for introducing me to this awesome summer escape Dad will always be close in my heart.

Before that A’s game in ’68, I was only 8 when Dad took me to my very, very first game- a Dodgers game at beautiful Dodger Stadium. When I was little- and before the A’s came to Oakland- the Dodgers were my favorite team. But till I was 8, I'd only heard what Dodger Stadium looked like though the eyes of Vin Scully on my little transistor radio, pulling in far-away Dodger broadcasts on KFI Los Angeles on evenings when the atmospheric conditions were just right.

But it was like walking into a cathedral to actually be there in person. The grass was the greenest green. The infield dirt, a vivid red clay. And the lights were the tallest, biggest, brightest lights I’d ever seen. I was overwhelmed. And to see the players in their uniforms in real life, having only known them by name or baseball card, man, that was magic. ...Daddy, there's Maury Wills; he even looks fast!..And wow, that Don Drysdale is h-u-g-e!...Oh, look, is that Ron Fairly?  Can I get his autograph? 

So much has changed since that first game with Dad at Dodger Stadium, and later my first excursion to the Coliseum. Even the team the A's were playing the other day, the Tampa Bay Rays, didn't exist when I was a kid. In fact, they've only been around since the late 90's. What hasn't changed is the game and my relationship with it. So I carp about a lot of peripheral stuff. But I still love baseball. Like a first kiss, sometimes there's almost nothing as sweetly alluring as a warm summer afternoon at the ball game.

I still get swallowed up in the ambient crowd noise, the unmistakable sound of bat hitting ball and ball pounding mitt. I love checking the out of town scoreboard, and still get fired up watching a guy leg out a triple. I also have a deep affinity for the stolen base, an outfielder perfectly hitting the cut-off man, the beauty of a 3 pitch punch-out and the majesty of a long home run. And for three hours on a perfect July afternoon, in a 10-8 slugfest in which the Rays outlasted the A's, I got to see all of that.

And even well into mid-life now, I still get the same sense of excitement driving to the park and anticipating the afternoons' first pitch as I did when I was 8 years old. I can't really explain it either; but playing ball as a kid, and watching bigger kids play it now as a grown-up, still gives me a charge. Sure, the game moves too slow and isn't all that cool, at least to the younger generations. And the world's a far different place and the Oakland Coliseum is a dive, now, too. But for me the experience of just being there, or going to a ballgame in general, will never grow old.

And as long as baseball keeps the little kid in me alive, too, then, neither will I.